


shot down in may

by peachypylades



Series: skate to one song only; olympics au [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Alternate Universe - Skating, Ice Skating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 22:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14388780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachypylades/pseuds/peachypylades
Summary: Now, back to our set scene, where Enjolras stands at the entrance of the ice, hands on his dainty hips. Grantaire, in stark contrast, is bent over a hockey puck grasping his stick with gauze wrapped fingers.“Why if it isn’t Michelle Kwan,” Grantaire says in lieu of a greeting. He skates towards Enjolras, hockey puck in hand, and says, “are you here to play a few rounds? I could use a goalie.”Or, the story in which Grantaire trades out his hockey stick for feelings, and he isn't so sure about it.





	shot down in may

**Author's Note:**

> imagining enjolras and cosette as maia and alex shibutani results ultimately in this mess
> 
> i.e., alexandre enjolras and euphrasie enjolras are senior level figure skaters, and vincent grantaire is just trying to take a nap.
> 
> title is from frank sinatra's "that's life", which the shib sibs remixed and danced to at the 2017 worlds.

“Eh— Grantaire!” 

The puck hits the plexiglass siding of the practice rink far too loudly for the liking of the man he just frightened— but he didn’t care. It was still his time on the rink, he shouldn’t be yelled at while he’s trying to practice. He lifts his head and rips the helmet off his curls, the black cascading ringlets dripping down his head. Angrily, the blue of his eyes flash, and he faces his sudden opponent— who is clad in dainty skates, who’s toe pick and blade glint gold. 

Of course it is no one other than Alexandre Enjolras, perhaps one of the most stuck up, arrogant figure skaters he’d ever met. (If Enjolras heard him speak, he would he quite dissatisfied as well, because he is an ice dancer, not a simple figure skater. It is a completely different principal of the practice. Grantaire, to be quite frank, does not give a shit.) The figure skaters were all some form of snobbery— except Jehan. Jehan was an outlier. Enjolras was and is, the worst of them all. There he is, in his John Wilson blades, black tights and perfectly coordinated burgundy sweater. He talks bitterly about anyone who scuffs up the ice before he performs, and he talks especially badly about Grantaire.  
Why, you might ask, would anyone have anything wrong to say about Vincent Grantaire, the sweet boy from Québec? Well, Enjolras would confer why shouldn’t he? Grantaire is cursed with many things, ugliness, shortness, and crooked teeth being the worst of them— but at the very height of his shortcomings was Enjolras’ bitter hatred towards him. His French was all wrong, his skating too sloppy, his footwork too bland, his sport too aggressive, his hair was too greasy. What good could Grantaire do? So, from then on, he stopped trying to be the skater Enjolras wanted to see. He was sloppy Grantaire with his eyes on the hockey puck and his nose continuously broken. 

Now, back to our set scene, where Enjolras stands at the entrance of the ice, hands on his dainty hips. Grantaire, in stark contrast, is bent over a hockey puck grasping his stick with gauze wrapped fingers. 

“Why if it isn’t Michelle Kwan,” Grantaire says in lieu of a greeting. He skates towards Enjolras, hockey puck in hand, and says, “are you here to play a few rounds? I could use a goalie.”

“I do not… do that.” Enjolras says, as if ice hockey will give him an infectious disease. Maybe it will. Maybe Enjolras is allergic to anything that isn’t pretty. Perhaps, that’s why he hates Grantaire so vehemently. 

“What? Hold something? Gee, I’m not asking you to be my caddy.” Grantaire tsks, eyes stinging with sweat and salt. “It was just a game offer. Why are you here, anyways? You’re not on for another hour.”

“Your hour was up an hour ago. Cosette was too nice to come tell you, I had to. We have competitions too, you know.” Enjolras says, and his words seem to cut the air.  
Why are they having this argument, any person may argue to question? After the disaster of the 2014 Sochi Olympics— that were only disastrous to Enjolras exclusively— Enjolras and his sister sulked their way right into Grantaire’s safe haven— the rink. Now, Canada wasn’t even safe. Grantaire had to catch that glare 24/7. And because Enjolras spoke only his mother tongue, Grantaire was forced to spit back his Québécois Français to the man who devoted most of his time and energy to the motherland, mostly charity work and stuff. He loved to work with the children too, but that was beside the point Grantaire was trying to make. Canadian French equated to a plethora of Grantaire feeling quite attacked over simple words like un chum, la gomme, un cellulaire. Apparently management didn’t care, because Alexandre still worked near him anyways, and Grantaire has to suffer the stifled laughs from Enjolras’ dance partner, and the sliced corrections of the blonde himself. And henceforth, they shared a rink, and Grantaire suffered. The Canadian team and the French team had never been so close, and Enjolras and Grantaire had never been so far. 

“I do know. I am often begged to attend.” Grantaire snaps, thinking wearily about Bossuet— who resurfaced the ice after every skater— and who forced Grantaire to attend every match possible so he could gawk without boundaries at Joly, Enjolras’s coach. The former Olympian could be seen limping on his cane back and forth as the siblings skated, and Bossuet loved to make attempts to comfort him only to fall into the janitor’s bucket. 

“And do you watch?” Enjolras hisses, as he slides across the ice. He skates backwards, doing nervous figure eights around the center. The thing about watching Enjolras dance was that there were no Salchows, no Toe Loops, no Quad Flips— not when he ice danced, anyways. Ice dancing was just Enjolras and the ice— and his sister. Alexandre was the music, the emotion, the love in the song. It was just Enjolras and the infectious jazz that he danced to. He was devoted to his form of figure skating, to the drama of ice dance. R admired him for his charisma, but he preferred figure skating. The jumps and spins were amazing. How could one not enjoy that? (He hated to admit what Enjolras did was stunning. He hated that Enjolras was stunning.)

Did Grantaire watch? Hardly. He ate bad hot dogs and drank beer— he watched the warmups, and eventually watched Bossuet stumble out of the mop bucket and wrapped himself in a towel in embarrassment. Poor guy often went to sulk by his zamboni in peace. That left R alone. 

So, he watched Enjolras, and by default, the other Enjolras. Cosette was okay, she was beautiful in every way, but Enjolras? He was a force. He danced as if the ice was apart of him, as if an extension of himself found purchase on the skates. The gold blade sliced the ice and R’s heart as well. Enjolras stole the show. How was he sixth in Sochi? How was he supposed to get better when he was perfect? But, again, R couldn’t stomach the idea of allowing Enjolras that satisfaction. Enjolras was far too conceited in R’s eyes to accept the compliment like a normal human being. So he acted childish in a way Vincent Grantaire only could. 

So, “Yes,” he cuts back, “I watched.” Grantaire throws the puck into his duffel bag and lets the stick hit the bleachers, knowing it will fall and not caring at this point. He grabs his skate guards and slips them atop the shoe knives, as Gavroche so eloquently puts it. He nearly runs into Cosette, the blonde ponytail near whacking him in the face.  
Cosette is setting down her guards as he leaves and she grins at him, waving sweetly. Somehow she always came out of nowhere. “Will you watch again?” 

He forces the walls of his heart back up and shakes his head. He will not watch Enjolras, the eloquently perfect, wonderful, giving man be better at everything and successful at everything that Vincent was not. He pauses, watching Enjolras as he spins, flecks of frozen water flicking up around him and onto his black tights. He has elegant calves, and the black skates only accentuate the look. What was he jealous of? Was he jealous of Enjolras’ success, or of the ice? The ice was the only thing Enjolras loved. Perhaps, R wanted to change that. Nevertheless, Grantaire steels his gaze on the ice, and shakes his head. He will not be shaken by a boy who only gives him the time of day to fight. He will guard his heart like he guards the puck.

“No, I’ll leave you to practice, since I clearly know nothing about ice dancing.” His voice raises, and it’s clearly directed to Enjolras. 

Enjolras, in turn, raises his chin and lifts his hands, and the music starts. There is, however, a faint grin on his face. God, does he hate this guy.

Grantaire huffs, but leaves them to their work. 

They’ve always fought like this. It had always been a constant back and forth. Enjolras insulted hockey, Grantaire insulted figure skating, so on and so forth. He was never malicious— not really. R didn’t really care. Ice skating wasn’t his cup of tea, he didn’t shame Enjolras for his achievements. Except when Enjolras cut too far. Sometimes, Enjolras didn’t understand that his words hurt. Sometimes, Grantaire would spit back harsh words like, “at least I win” or, “what’s the point anyways?” R starts to wonder what is the point? And then he remembers it’s the only thing he’s good at, so he may as well stick with it. What else can he do, get a real job? He quit for this. So, he bites down real insults and instead quips with, “okay, ice ballerina” or “what’s the point of dancing on ice? Just dance on the ground, it’s easier.” Not quite as snarky as he’d like, but he doesn’t want Enjolras questioning his purpose like himself. 

So goes on the feud. Canadian News programs broadcast clips of them fighting, YouTube videos emerge, recordings of Vincent Grantaire and Alexandre Enjolras having shouting matches across the rink— the whole nine yards. Grantaire’s personal favorite is “Pyeongchang Opening Ceremonies But Everytime Enjolras and Grantaire Glare At Each Other It Gets Faster”. It’s 4:21 seconds long, and he wishes it were shorter. He cannot, honestly, glare at this man enough. Enjolras only gets progressively worse. As it is in fact, May, and the figure skating season has been over for a few months now, he has all the time in the world to complain. To be fair, Grantaire does too. His season ended sometime in April, and now all he ever does is eat chips and do promotional work. 

Grantaire hardly ever practiced, he found it useless without a team to practice with. He tried, also, to avoid Enjolras at all cost. And when in doubt, Enjolras was at the rink.  
But Enjolras? Enjolras has taken training to the next level. In the hockey practice rooms he is often found doing elaborate spins and working on his core. He’s even attempted more jumps, which he won’t use in his ice dancing routine per the ISU’s rules, but that didn’t matter to Enjolras. Enjolras liked learning, liked being on the ice. It was strange— how could one man be so devoted to frozen water! He was a figure skater at heart, and didn’t strictly find himself stuck in ice dancing. He made up his own routines for fun. Grantaire just didn’t get it. He didn’t want to skate for fun— how could Enjolras? 

Enjolras was never kind enough to answer. Enjolras was always short with him when they crossed paths. Often times they had an argument, whether it over skating or political beliefs or R’s terrible puns. Every conversation went something like this, for example:

One afternoon, R entered the rink and was preparing just to skate a while. Some people drove around when stressed, but R thought skating worked just as well. So he began skating, twirling figure eights around the rink, when he accidentally bumped into Enjolras. 

“Oh, man, sorry.”

“Please watch where you’re going,” Enjolras had flared. 

“Oh, yeah! Sorry, sorry. I’m just distracted.” R rambled, waving his hands. 

Enjolras hadn’t replied. He just glared, and skated onward. Why was Enjolras like this? Was it the way Grantaire looked when he was angry, flustered, or confused? The blue of his eyes flashing, the snarl of his lips, the fiddling with his hair? Vincent would never guess that. Vincent would see Enjolras’ smiles as argumentative, his words repulsive, and would never see the brows furrowing as Enjolras reconsiders every word. The blonde knew Vincent did not like him, and was accepting of that. He wasn’t used to everyone hating him— the prince of ice dance, the angel, the blond god to the press— but to Grantaire he was Alexandre, terrible ice dancer, loser, nothing. So he fought back ice with fire and let the red rise. It was no excuse for his behavior, Enjolras knew. But what to do? How was he to tell Grantaire that he had hated him for so long, but now the words meant nothing, that he was playing a part he wish he was never casted in. 

So went their feud, and so went Grantaire. Grantaire never saw, and Enjolras accepted it with a weak, fluttering heart. 

Grantaire had enough of Enjolras’ insistent rudeness— or what he considered as such, and what Enjolras considered as a terrible attempt at some conversation— and at the end of the season, returned home to Québec. He didn’t however, expect a follower. That followed wasn’t particularly bad, just unexpected. 

The only good— and he said good lightly— thing about the Enjolras siblings’ entrance was Cosette. She was the good follower. Euphrasie “Cosette” Enjolras was what the world might call a literal and figurative angel. She had taken to teaching students in Quebec, so she was far too often in Grantaire’s area for him to ignore her, and she wasn’t worth ignoring, not really. She was kind, especially in comparison to her brother, she was smart, she made the children smile and yet still managed to push them farther than they’d ever gone before. Somehow, Cosette warmed the ice without thawing it, and Grantaire admired that. That’s why he’d taken to sitting with her classes on lazy days, watching her teach them and getting whatever she required out of the employees room without interrupting them. Life was good with Cosette. She was like a sister he’d never had— a sister who was heaps prettier than he was. The only time Grantaire even had a need to ignore her was when Enjolras came. Enjolras remained at Team Canada’s rink for most of his off season, working and studying English and speaking for Team France when he could. Cosette did this too, but Grantaire had an inkling that Enjolras had no desire to see Grantaire anywhere, especially on home turf. 

Grantaire had this particular inkling due to an argument they’d had a few weeks prior, before the hockey season was completely over. They’d been standing in the hall, Enjolras complaining that Grantaire was once again being Grantaire. They’d been talking about work schedules and ice times, which has escalated into work ethic and dangers of their sports. Enjolras was mad he was injured, and R couldn’t understand why. R was mad he was upset about practice times, and Enjolras couldn’t understand why. They’d gotten a bit too heated, and as R’s team was walking on the ice, the argument progressed. They’d fought for a good few minutes, until Grantaire exclaimed, “All you ever do is think about yourself, I compete too, I practice too. This isn’t all about you. We’re letting you use our ice— don’t waste my time when I could be practicing! Shove off, man.”  
Enjolras had whipped around disgust on his dainty features. He was concerned about R, about him overworking, about everything, but he could not say it reasonably. Instead, he shouted, “Why do you work so hard when you’ll just be getting benched for— for getting yourself hurt!”

In one of Grantaire’s less bright moments, he’d growled back, “Why do you practice when you won’t even get into Worlds? You can’t even skate clean, Alexandre.”  
Enjolras’ face had gone red in what Grantaire could only assume was anger or embarrassment. He had turned on his heel, mumbling obscenities in French, and left in an angry rush. As soon as Alexandre left the room the Frenchman felt a bite of regret, pain, and sadness all at once. 

So, needless to say, Enjolras had avoided him. Enjolras, for some reason, knew the act had overstepped. He knew the game they’d played had gotten far too real. So he stopped, backed away, and regrouped. It’s what R would’ve liked, right? It was hockey minded thinking. Grantaire didn’t mind. The icy glare was annoying, and the way Enjolras watched him was terrifyingly understandable; Grantaire wasn’t quite proud of that exclamation. It hadn’t been great. So they wouldn’t see each other till mid October and that was fine by him. 

Until Cosette begged him to visit. 

It rarely happened, and Enjolras always came for a few days and enjoyed time off with his sister. They would often stay holed up in the rink or seeing around the city. Enjolras had to admit Quebec was beautiful, even if he thought the French was lacking. Today was a surprise. 

Grantaire was bitterly being reminded of how much he hated surprises. 

He was just sitting in the stands, helping a young boy with an ice pack on his twisted ankle, and watching Cosette teaching a 5 year old how to skate backwards, when Enjolras tapped his shoulder. He looked up, confusion on his face and cursed.

“Criss, Enjolras— you scared me!” 

Enjolras was blinding. He was still wearing sweats, but somehow he made that look good. His hair was pulled back and his joggers were baggy, but somehow it worked and R hated him for it, because his own sweatpants and ratty t-shirt made him look like a homeless man. Enjolras raises his eyebrows and even has the balls to look smug. He sits, crossing his legs as he gets comfortable— he’s so tall he has to maneuver to sit comfortably in the stands. He was this beautiful before, but it’s shocking after a few weeks apart. Whoever said distance makes the heart grow fonder might be right. Grantaire still may hate the words that come from his mouth but his apparent beauty was endless. How was he to talk to the blinding god of ice dancing? He felt sick and alive all at once. 

“Enjolras,” He says, because that is all that is on his mind. 

Enjolras seems to find his humorous. In reality, the some that comes upon his face is ultimately uncomfortable. How will he speak to this man who hurt him, and he hurt too? How will he monumentally apologize for the weeks of arguments? Sheepishly, he nudged R with his elbow. His smile grows suddenly, and somehow it makes Grantaire smile too. “Grantaire,” Enjolras replies, and inclines his head as if he is bowing. Damn him and his gentlemanly nature. “Why are you here?”

“Cosette, um. She lets me help her.” He says, “I don’t have much to do, and the kids don’t hate me.” The kids never have hated him. Some of them hang on his arms when he hands out water after their lesson, and some of them absolutely beg for him to come out on the ice and dance. He refuses, because Cosette may have warmed his ice cold heart to figure skating but he is not ready to start dancing now. 

“Really?” Enjolras says, and it’s not even condescending. It’s sweet. It’s like he means it. Grantaire feels blessed and hates it all at once. 

“Yeah. I have like, five sisters. I have experience.” Vincent manages, going back to helping the young student. He wraps gauze around their ankle to hold the ice in place, and glances back at Enjolras. 

“Oh,” Enjolras blinks. Perhaps he is thinking about the fact that dealing with Cosette is easy enough, but four more? He was really thinking about the words he had practiced on the taxi ride here, the way he would hopefully win back R’s favor. It was going well so far, but then— “It’s always been just me and Cosette. Hey I meant to ap—“

“Enjolras!” Cosette has noticed his presence now, and she waves from the ice to him. “Come show me what you learned! Marie-Anne has her toe loop so well!” Enjolras looks disappointed to be interrupted. What was he going to say? 

Grantaire’s just now noticed his skates in his free hand. He isn’t here to visit— clearly Enjolras is here to work. Enjolras was here for him, though. And he didn’t even know it.  
“Oh,” R murmurs, “sorry I interrupted. Have fun on the ice.” He says sincerely. 

Enjolras watches him a moment, wavered by the kindness, wavered by the interruption of his meticulously planned apology. “Thanks.” He darts up, and is down to the ice and putting on his skates in five minutes flat. 

It has been months since Grantaire has seen Enjolras on the ice, and yet somehow he feels drawn to look. Enjolras stretches, clearly not comfortable on the new rink. He skates in a few wide sweeping circles and takes Cosette’s hand. Ah, so they’re showing them ice dancing techniques. They’re sort of show offs, and it’s sort of silly to see their twizzles and know those kids are far from that sort of skill level. Still, it’s something for them to strive towards. When Enjolras spins Cosette, it’s beautiful. When Enjolras starts spinning so fast all you catch is the yellow of his hair— that’s beautiful too. Grantaire isn’t quite sure how he does it. Enjolras has a graceful smile on his face— it’s almost hard for Grantaire to remember the insults that came from that beautiful mouth. With not distaste, Grantaire reminded himself of the face in the hallway, who had shouted and grew bitter over scheduling mishaps, over his job. He just couldn’t understand. He tried to forget Enjolras’ beauty in that moment, just to take note of his words. 

Grantaire is nothing to Enjolras and that was fine. The brunette ruffled the child’s hair and asked him to see that Cosette knew he’d gone home, and stood to leave. Their dancing was just ending when R turned to look back. Enjolras was seemingly watching him from the rink, eyes upturned towards him. His gaze steeled, and he smiled down at the children on the ice. He was still rude, insistent, untrustworthy, Grantaire reminded himself. He was just pretty, and that was all. 

But he wasn’t. Grantaire knew that, you know that— everyone knows that. Enjolras is known for his smile, for his pride, for his open arms and his wise personality. Enjolras is known for his skating, but equally as known for his charity work. He is known for his skating, but he is known just as well for his marches and efforts for skaters, teachers, students, anyone in need. Enjolras is much, much more than pretty. He may be rude to Grantaire, he may be stuck up when it came to his skating, but he loved. Grantaire was just a little jealous. Jealous— but what for? For that personality? For that fame? Or, simply, for the love Enjolras gives to others but not to him? 

He isn’t sure, and he isn’t too keen on figuring it out yet.

 

The next few days go without a blunder, R meets up with Bahorel and they do promotional work with the little children’s leagues in Montreal, have a couple advertisements to work on (companies don’t often ask Grantaire to work on commercials. He thinks it’s because he’s ugly— both in speech and in appearance), and box in the gym every evening. In those events, he hardly has the time to worry about back home, and Enjolras, and the confusing feelings that have amassed because of the two formerly mentioned things. It’s when he arrives back home, duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, that he realizes he may see Enjolras again. He tries not to panic, because Enjolras isn’t someone he should fear, Enjolras isn’t dangerous but— he doesn’t think that’s why he’s so frightened. Is he frightened because a sudden happy feeling bubbles up? Is he excited to see the man who so eagerly made him feel like nothing?

Quebec City is a massive area, with many boroughs and neighborhoods— there’s no reason for him to even imagine Enjolras will see him. There’s no way that he could know everyone in this city. Enjolras can leave on his own terms without R having to face weird… feelings. 

He grabs a cab to his place, and rests his mind for a moment. Québec was a beautiful city to watch. The ferries and the tourists and the snow scattered bushes. Something about it was so stunning. Even the shopping centers made him smile; his home was beautiful. He thought it the best place in all of the world. Enjolras wouldn’t agree. Enjolras thought Paris was— and that was fine. God, he was thinking about that again. 

Where had this infatuation with Enjolras came from? Perhaps from seeing him on the ice, perhaps from the way he smiles. Perhaps it was from the attempted apology without the words. Perhaps it was the frustration they shared between each other. He wasn’t sure, he just didn’t want it. Enjolras wouldn’t like him, couldn’t like him. Enjolras was too focused on work to imagine a boyfriend, much less ever like Grantaire. Grantaire, who he’d sneered at and frowned at. Grantaire, who was uglier than most and more hateful than all. Maybe it was just a need to love someone. He’d had flings, but Enjolras seemed like a long term love. He wanted that. 

Maybe it was the hours in Montreal, seeing Enjolras on the news with children and dancing and charity and Enjolras just being Enjolras. He didn’t understand— Enjolras was so purely himself that it hurt. Alexandre was kind and fierce and attractive. Did he know it? Did he understand that just a gaze from across the rink made R’s heart this terrified? Just one flicker of interest made him feel a little liked? He felt like an idiot. He felt like an idiot back in Montreal, three pages in the ‘Alexandre Enjolras’ google pages, smiling every time he saw a charity event. 

Enjolras almost cute for believing that all did good. It was sweet that he was so hopeful. R did the promotional stuff because it was apart of his job but Enjolras did it because it was apart of his life. What cause could be so important to a rich French boy? Or maybe that was the sweet part; maybe he wa so sweet because he didn’t need a reason. He just cared. The world was devoid of people who just cared nowadays. 

But that wasn’t enough to like someone. Enjolras was pretty too, a regular Apollo, Johnny Weir could only wish to be as gorgeous as Enjolras. The blonde hair uptop in the loosest of buns, the milky blue of his eyes, the mole by the corner of his eye, the smoothness of his skin. He was beautiful. He was a breathing sculpture. He was something R could imagine Michelangelo would die over. 

He isn’t in love, but this crush is growing and it’s almost suffocating at this point. 

Like that his ride is over, and he stands in front of the townhouse he and Bahorel share. It’s tiny, especially for two hockey players and their landlord who shared the adjoining house. He didn’t mind it, though; home was home wherever you looked at it. He walked up to the house and stepped in, bumping into Bahorel’s bike.  
“Baz, did you pick up milk?” He asks and throws his bag down by the front door once he gets there. Bahorel is in front of the glass mirror, in the middle of styling his hair. Bahorel always forgets things at the store. He had a minor concussion now from a stick to the head, so it would’ve been understandable for him to forget something. 

“Yeah, in the fridge. Don’t have to remind me, mother.” He huffs when Grantaire enters and raises one shoulder in greeting. He’d gotten back two days prior, as he didn’t have quite as many gigs as R. R resented him for that greatly. He walks past the open bathroom door and into their shared living room, ready to flop face first into the cushions. 

“Tabarnak, god, Enjolras?” Grantaire stumbles back shoving his beanie back over his disheveled, oily, curly hair. It’s true. Seated sweetly at the center of the couch is Enjolras, flicking through a copy of Bahorel’s sports magazine. He has his brows furrowed as he reads, and only looks up when his name is called. A registered look of utter confusion crosses his features, and he replies, “What did you just say?” 

Of course he doesn’t know slang. And R is happy to keep him in the dark on that. 

“Oh yeah,” Bahorel enters, wearing his boxers and ratty, faded band t-shirt. “You have a guest.” 

“Oh, thanks,” Grantaire says sarcastically, taking off his jacket in frustration. “You’re being such a good host.” 

“He got me water.” Enjolras pipes up, clearly fed up with being spoken over. He rattles his glass and looks pleased with it, closing the magazine. 

“Yeah, R. And reading materials. It’s like Bahorel’s Bed ‘n Breakfast here.” He retorts, and disappears back into the bathroom. 

And R is left with his worst nightmare. 

He sets his jacket on the back of his chair in a way to stop fidgeting, and comes to sit down. The chair he sits in is across from Enjolras, and he is sure the man can see the sweat pooling around his brow. Nerves were never good to R. 

“Wh— What are you doing here?” He asks, rubbing his clammy hands on his knees. 

“Oh, yes,” Enjolras had been watching him closely, brows raised in silent resolve. He seemed concerned and a little curious at R’s condition. Was he that frightening? “I wanted to apologize.” He inclines his head. 

Apologize?

“What for?” R sputtered, leaning forward. His cheeks tinged pink, angry with himself for such a knee-jerk reaction. 

“For,” Enjolras’ hands fluttered around, throat clearing. “For being a jerk to you, earlier. You— Hockey—ugh,” He says, honesty in his air. “You’re intimidating, I guess. And also extremely argumentative. It’s easy to debate— and fight— with you. I was only concerned with your health. You always seemed to have a concussion, or a broken arm— or something. I just.. we had argued so much I didn’t even know how to apologize to you. I’m trying now, though it is surely not enough for what I’ve made you go through, and I understand if you’re still upset. I shouldn’t have come so randomly— but I needed to apologize. I apologize for making things awkward. I meant to say it that first time I visited. I should’ve, Cosette just cornered me. You were so kind, I should’ve done it then. I meant to do it then. I planned for hours what to say and— what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry. You’re a great guy, R. I shouldn’t have ever been harsh on you.” 

“You.. I was just as bad.” Grantaire says. “I’m sorry. Apology accepted. T- Thanks.” Enjolras has wanted to tell him this that day? Enjolras cared that much about s conversation weeks ago when he had so much else on his plate? Enjolras cared about him? This was all almost too much to process. He’s glad he’s sitting down. He may have fainted otherwise.  
“Don’t thank me.” Enjolras is suddenly smiling now, “Cosette talks to highly of you. Don’t get me wrong, I came here on my own accord. I’m just— I want to be friends with you like she is friends with you. You sound like a… a really cool guy.” 

Is Enjolras blushing?  
Oh, be still, his beating heart. 

“Thanks.” He croaks. “Maybe we could hang?” 

“Yeah, we should.” Enjolras smiles, and his eyes lift up. He hadn’t intended on being happy when he left. He assumed R would yell and throw things or get angry to his face. He never expected the soft look in the other man’s eyes, or the pleased smile that managed to cross his face. He was so calm and accepting— Alexandre didn’t quite know what to say. But R didn’t let him become complacent. He leaned forward and started apologizing too, and things began to unravel from there. They started talking about their sports, about how Enjolras had researched plays and the history and everything to understand. How that had pleased R! How he had smiled softly. Enjolras couldn’t believe his luck, and when night began to pool around the Canadian sky, he took his leave, and with a smile, he said, “See you at the rink, R.”

“See you,” and before R can offer him anything else, he starts toward the door after a quick set of goodbyes to Bahorel. 

Once he’s gone, R flops down on the couch and in a terrible groan says, “Kill me.”

“He’s cute. Not sure you have a chance, though.” Bahorel shouts from his bathroom, still prepping for his nightly routine. 

“I hate you!” R chirps, but his heart flutters. What was that all about?

 

The next time Grantaire sees Enjolras it’s on the rink, and there’s a team there from France to film the siblings progress towards the 2022 Olympic Games. He hardly goes to skate for fun— he gets enough skating during hockey season, but Cosette called him to the rink early that morning, and he hadn’t had much wine before so he saw no harm in doing it. When he showed up to hear the heavily accented English and film crew, he almost wanted to turn around. Cosette had already caught sight of him, though, and ran into his arms.  
“Grantaire! Thank god, we need you!” She squealed, arms thrown around his neck, “Can you help?”

He knows he smells like red wine and old cologne, so he hopes she doesn’t notice that— that’s his first thought, though. His second is that the cameramen are currently filming this exchange, and Enjolras is leaning against the far left wall, smirking. He has to pull himself together— what will the French public think of him if he says no? 

He clears his throat and says, “Sure, what can I do for you?”

“Oh, thank you, biscuit!” —the French and their bread, gee— “Come dance with us!”

Suddenly Cosette’s smile is much more malicious, and R wants to throw up— just a little. 

So, that’s how he ended up on rental skates in the middle of an ice skating rink with Cosette and Achille, filming a “funny” segment for the news broadcasters. So, basically hell. Fundamentally, R didn’t dance. He didn’t know how, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to dance on literal frozen water, but whatever. He’d wing it.  
“Okay, show me your forward skate.” Enjolras asks, arms folded in front of his chest. 

“Aw, is that all it takes?” Grantaire braces himself and speed skates to the other end of the rink, as if he’s got the puck, the stands are going wild, and the goal is wide open—  
“Stop!” Enjolras exclaims, skating towards fiercely. “Your posture is horrid.” The camera crew is following, muttering quietly. Enjolras forces Grantaire to stand up straight, pushing his chin up with his pointer finger. He presses a hand to the small of his back and mutters, “imagine your head is being pulled up by a ribbon, keep your shoulders back, try again.” 

Grantaire is fairly certain his heart is pounding right through his chest, and his face is bright red— both from being touched and being scolded. He tries again, head raised and shoulders back. He feels more elegant, but he isn’t sure he looks it. 

“Lovely, ‘Taire! Try to lift your leg now, bend your other knee, like this!” Cosette chirps, suddenly coming up to Grantaire, arms outstretched and a graceful smile on her face. She bends the knee of the foot planted on the ice and lifts her free leg back, toe pointed. She gets it very high, and frankly it makes R’s hips hurt just to see it. He tries to follow, bending one knee but somehow managing his head up high. He lifts one leg and points his toe, but it barely makes it off the ground. He wavers on the ice, and when he tries to exchange one foot for the other, he stumbles, nearly running into the plexiglass. 

Someone giggles, and it’s definitely Enjolras. 

“C’mon, R! C’mon!” Cosette cheers, and skates over to help him back up. 

“Perhaps we should try the fun stuff. Spins.” Enjolras offers, and they both take Vincent by his hands and bring him to the center. “Two foot spin will be the easiest. It’s beginner level stuff— you’ll be fine.” 

“Here, watch Enjolras do a spin quickly.” Cosette offers, arm looped around his. He thinks it’s because she’s scared he’ll fall again— and he might. Enjolras performs the spin with ease, and leads out of it just as easily. 

“So,” Enjolras says, as Cosette releases Grantaire. “Lift your arms, and pull them into your chest. The momentum of your arms is what makes you spin.” Enjolras demonstrates again, arms out and suddenly pulled into his chest as he pins beautifully on the ice. 

“Oh, hell yeah, I can do that, no problem.” Grantaire lets his legs stretch a bit and holds his arms out, twisting his hips and— performing the slowest spin known to man.  
“You have to go a bit faster.” Cosette says sweetly, but she has that knowing smile that makes him feel like he will never get this right. 

Oh she wants faster? Okay, she can get faster. With all the force of a hockey player he tries to throw himself into a spin, bringing his arms in quickly, he spins out of control and just keeps spinning— somehow managing to knock into Enjolras. 

“Shit— oh, sorry, can I curse on French television?”

Now all of that was bad enough. He was embarrassed enough as it was,but then came the dreaded waltz jump. He didn’t really like leaving the ice. The ice was a safe space. The ice was a friend. The ice was his only friend in this horrid situation Cosette put him in where he has to attempt to skate on ice with a man who maybe still hated him and with a girl who was the princess of ice dancing. The ice loved and cared for him. Why would he abandon the ice now? 

This is where it got dicey. He was okay the first jump, the second’s landing was wobbly. The third, Enjolras told him to jump higher. This is where it all went downhill. Gravity was on the ice’s side. Gravity wanted Grantaire down. Immediately. It pulled him down and threw him on the ice like a ragdoll. He fell his fourth, fifth, and sixth time. The seventh, he spun on his ass on the ice intentionally just to get a good laugh out of falling, again. 

By the end of it, Enjolras was laughing. And, when he got home that night there was already a compilation of all his falls. It was tragic, truly tragic. 

Back to currently, where a PR team is attempting to get him to put on a bedazzled ice skating outfit for a final “performance” with his newfound knowledge. Enjolras is quietly watching the Québécois man and the French angrily argue over the blue bedazzled tuxedo when he finally pipes up— “you’ll look good in it. Put it on, R.” 

That’s when Grantaire knows he’s whipped, because in that moment, he would probably do anything for Enjolras. 

When he waddled out of the dressing room wearing an uncomfortably tight top and shapely pants and his bright red rental skates— god, he doesn’t think it could get any worse. He really doesn’t. 

“I hate this. And I hate you.” 

“I know,” Enjolras is smirking. “I’ve picked out your music. Let’s go.” 

The scene is silent except for the music, which is some classical version of Coldplay he’s seen Enjolras dance to a few times, and he can hardly take it seriously. He truly tries his best not to wobble and keep his center of balance. He even smiles a few times. He doesn’t fall, and succeeds barely in one of the waltz jumps he performs smoothly. He spins at the end and keeps his legs together and doesn’t spin out of control. He bows dramatically and raises his hands— and Cosette goes wild. She whoops and whirls and claps her hands, and Enjolras claps too. He has a knowing smile on his face and a glimmer in his icy eyes, so that’s enough for R. 

When he’s finally off the ice and back in his hoodie and converse, he feels comfortable again. His leg is bruised from falling on it too much and his arms feel heavy, but he feels accomplished. Enjolras and Cosette run through a quick outro, and Grantaire waves at the camera, and then it’s over. He cannot explain the sudden relief he feels. It’s indescribably, truly. He may have a little more respect for figure skaters now. 

Enjolras comes running up to him and he honestly tenses out of fear of having to go back out there or do something else that involves pain and embarrassing himself, but it’s nothing like that. It’s quite the opposite, really. 

“Hey! Thanks. I know it was probably awkward and we aren’t on great terms— but, thanks. You saved us. Feuilly was supposed to be in town but, Poland got hit with a storm last night and he couldn’t fly in. You saved us.” Enjolras says happily. Ah, how R loved being second choice. 

“No problem. I couldn’t tell your sister no. She’s just too sweet.” Vincent admits.

“Yeah, she has that effect on people.” Enjolras says. The silence that fills between them is uncomfortable, and Cosette cannot come save them now. Grantaire clears his throat and bobbles on his feet back and forth uncomfortably. 

Grantaire has to say something. He has to fill the space with words somehow. He shifts and leans against the outside of the rink and looks up at Enjolras. “You’re really good and what you do.” 

Enjolras seems a bit shocked by this. He blinks, and furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Sure, Vincent had expressed his love for the sport earlier, or as much love as he could have, but he didn’t think R thought of him as good. “What do you mean?”

“I mean— you look so happy out there. You’re really good. I know we fight all the time about it, and it’s honestly funny to see you all ruffled up about it, but you’re stunning on the ice. It’s magical, to see you dance with such ease.” Grantaire says, then adds, “I could never do it. Clearly.” He motions to the ice in reference to the disaster of this afternoon.  
“I… thank you, R.” Enjolras says, like he isn’t sure how to reply. “Thank you so much.” Silence overtakes again and R thinks maybe he’s messed up, maybe he shouldn’t have spoken so flippantly, until— “you’re good at what you do too. To be honest, I can hardly see the puck. But when you’re out there, you’re always aiming true.” He has said it before and will say it again. R is talented. 

“That’s really… poetic. It’s just stickball.” Grantaire snorts. 

And that makes Enjolras laugh. It’s a true, ringing sound that R can only imagine as angels singing. He feels like he’s unlocked another level of Enjolras. He’s found the secret levels in Mario. He’s hit the jackpot. This is better than a trip to Hawaii. This is Enjolras.

“My captain would kill me if I called it that,” R quips, smiling. “But, thank you.” He adds quickly, so not to sound conceited. 

“No problem.” 

“You know,” Grantaire says, as he turns to watch the Zamboni sweep across the ice. (This guy is not as good as Bossuet. Bossuet knows his ice.) “it’s nice to see something on the ice that isn’t violent. It’s nice to slip rather than slam into the walls.” He chuckles. 

“God, I don’t know why you still do it. It’s gotta be hell to get hit with that stick.” Enjolras says dramatically, coming up beside Grantaire. 

“It’s not that bad. I can’t imagine what it would be like to… I dunno, fall in competition. That must be devastating.” Vincent falling is normal. Enjolras falling sends him down to sixth place. 

“You just have to get back up.” Is all Enjolras replies.

 

The season’s starting again, and Grantaire thinks that Enjolras and he are on better terms. They have each other’s numbers and send good morning/night messages, have short conversations, send memes and funny videos to one another, and that feels like enough. Knowing he is making Enjolras laugh is more than enough. He also somehow wants more— but he isn’t sure he’ll get it. Enjolras only ever talks about skating. He would never have time for anything more than that. They’ve become.. friends. It’s odd to say, but it feels right for the first time since they met. 

Team Canada’s rink is back training again, and Enjolras is gearing up for his first few ice dance competitions to ensure his spot in the bigger, more influential competitions. R promises to go to at least one. They seem to be getting on well, and that’s making R seen so much more happy. He didn’t realize one person could make him happy. 

They met up every day at the rink and passed around happy words and high fives, and Enjolras danced around the puck in a quiet game. Team Canada often had long, grueling practices where he didn’t see Enjolras for hours. They often did it in the practice room, and R would come out with his shirt soaking, and breathing heavily. Enjolras would hand him a water bottle, and they’d walk to the stands to chat. Today was one of those days, Alexandre handed him a water bottle and teetered on his skate guards until he found a spot for them to sit down. Often, like today, Enjolras would stretch. Right now he sits on the floor, nearly folded completely over one leg. His toes are pointed and his tights are colored a wine red. Enjolras was always wearing tights and long shirts, made of thin material so to glide better. He was also always wearing gloves, no matter what.

Grantaire nurses his water bottle and leans back, wearing his tight t-shirt and uncomfortably sweaty sweatpants, wondering just how disgusting he looks. “So, where are you and Cosette staying? I know she had like, a long term stay in a hotel in Québec, but what about you guys now?”

“Hm? Oh,” Enjolras sits up and raises his arms above his head, “We stay with Joly. You should come for dinner sometime. He makes wonderful kimchi. Maybe tonight?” 

Grantaire stutters, confused at the sudden question, “Uh, sure. If Joly doesn’t mind.” 

“Oh, he won’t.” Enjolras assures, leaning forward now. His hair is always pinned up in his bun, but today he releases the mane and it’s bleached color creates a halo around him. He has such a nice pattern of curls too. He has nice everything. “He always wants me to make friends.” 

Grantaire barks a laugh out and grabs his ribs, forcing himself not to laugh too loudly, “We’re friends now, Enjolras? I thought I was public enemy number one.” 

“Shut up,” Enjolras flushes, looking embarrassed at his past self. “You’re my friend. You’re just annoying as hell sometimes.”

“Thank you. It’s my strongest suit.” Grantaire replies. It’s snarky and dramatic, just like they both are. 

“Shut up,” Enjolras mumbles, but smiles all the same. 

 

So they go on like this, quipping back and forth. Whether it over text or chatting by the ice, they slowly grew to speaking terms. It wasn’t all roses and butterflies; they fought often about trivial things, and R hated it. It wasn’t as if he hated Enjolras now. He loved Enjolras. He hated when he made Enjolras upset, now. It hurt, to see the man frown and fro angry. It hurt to hear his words. He tried hard not to. He enjoyed the opposite of that. He enjoyed laughing with the man, making memories— basically everything the complete opposite of what was before. It felt so good. He loved it. 

He loved Enjolras. 

It was a hard thing to come about, and it wasn’t something he ever truly expected. These months of knowing each other have been insane ups and downs that he never intended to happen he never expected for a man who despised him to text him on the daily. He never expected the French team to become closer to him than Bahorel, or Bossuet. He never expected to be eating kimchi in a former French Olympian’s house. He expected a quiet season. But as Enjolras’ season began his feelings only grew. every time Enjolras wasn’t there he was sad. He’d never been sad about this type of thing before, until Enjolras didn’t answer his texts. He had never felt sick until Enjolras never dialed back. He didn’t understand himself, and more importantly, he didn’t understand how he came to this. 

Enjolras and he grew closer and he felt like he could fly. He felt like all the answers were in the palm of Enjolras’ hand, if only he could hold it. He felt like every time Enjolras opened up a little, that maybe he would. 

He knew so much about Enjolras now. He knew his favorite color (red, but more or a red with purple undertones), he knew Enjolras’ favorite music (Sinatra, because of course), he knew Enjolras’ favorite show (Mr. Robot), he knew his favorite food (Joly’s cooking), and so much more. Enjolras knew about him: his millions of sisters, his short endeavor in soccer, his terrible hockey coaches, his favorite drink, his favorite place, his favored song. They knew so much yet R wanted to know more. Maybe he just wanted to love him.  
He didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate when he saw Enjolras and felt his heart clench. He didn’t hate cheering with pride when Enjolras completed a flip. He didn’t hate seeing him in competition and being the loudest in the stands. He didn’t hate being known as Enjolras enemy turned friend. He didn’t hate the change of pace from “glaring at each other” to “staring lovingly at the other” in the edits fans produced. He didn’t hate it at all. 

He just had little faith in it. Enjolras wouldn’t feel the same. Alexandre and he were just too different, and on top of that, they weren’t nearly similar at all. They would somehow end up fighting again, he just knew it. So he was pessimistic, sure. There was nothing wrong with being a little pessimistic. He didn’t have to stress when this friendship abruptly ended. It was just the way things had run its course; R would probably end up messing it up anyways. Why have any hope in it? 

 

He didn’t like thinking about that, especially as he sat at Worlds, watching Enjolras and his competitors skate across the ice. Enjolras didn’t look nervous; nervous Enjolras was fidgety and was often seen holding Cosette’s hand as a crutch. He was going through their short program just fine. The set up of skaters was solid. One of the crowd’s favorites was Montparnasse and Jehan, fellow French citizens to the Enjolras siblings. Montparnasse, the curled vixen, was clad in a slim fitting costume alongside Jehan’s feathery white one. They were a stark contrast of one another on the ice and off. They were a couple, married three years to the day, and planned to make this Worlds their own. Jehan was commanding on the ice. All the tentative nature they often possessed was gone. They skated as if Montparnasse was the only other person out there. There were a few more competitors in this round, Esmeralda and Phoebus of the United States were first up. Immediately R did not like them. They were just a bit too cocky for his liking, but most Americans were. Claquesous and Azelma were forth, and they were perhaps what R would call the most theatrical of the dancers. Claquesous was clad in a mask, looking eerily similar to Sweeney Todd. Azelma was wearing wine red and it was nearly more frightening than the mask. 

Cosette and Enjolras were not only the most normal of this skating group, but in his opinion, the most talented. Their matching yet contrasting blue uniforms, their elements they kept throwing out and in— they were boosting their GOE over and over again. Enjolras’ hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and the curls bounced with each of his movements. Cosette’s hair is free, flowing in the wind as she moves. They come off the ice after warming up and Grantaire can see the little tremor in Enjolras’ hands— so he does get nervous. His face doesn’t show it. He leads Cosette past the cameras and smiles, those pearly whites glittering. 

Grantaire is sitting sidelined waiting for them, right next to Joly. He doesn’t know how he managed to get the hypochondriac to allow him to sit there, but he is. He looks more like a bodyguard than a friend. He doesn’t want to sit out in the crowds and distract from the skaters— he may not he a fan favorite, but he is a well known hockey player. He doesn’t want to do anything to hurt Enjolras’ chances at gold.

He watches as Enjolras and Cosette mechanically put on their skate guards and make their ways towards Joly. They don’t look defeated; they look hopeful, in a sense. Cosette is holding her brother’s hand now and is jabbering on about how lovely everyone looks. R can hear her from here. When they get close Joly moves over and Enjolras ends up next to Grantaire, Cosette at his other side. The siblings are still speaking softly to one another, but Enjolras’ thigh is pressed lightly to his own.  
They go quiet when the United States skaters go up, and grasp each other’s hands tightly. They’re dancing to a violin piece, and Grantaire really, really digs it. He doesn’t dig them, because his favorite skater is Enjolras, 100%. Cosette is grouped in too— together he calls them Enjolrai. It pisses Enjolras off and makes her laugh.  
Back to the skating. This free dance program feels long as hell, but he cannot imagine what Enjolras and Cosette are feeling. Grantaire isn’t sure what they’re doing, he doesn’t know anything but, they haven’t fallen yet and every lift and slide looks perfectly clean. The music grows more upbeat and Esmeralda is smiling and working the crowd up, excited yells and claps coming from the audience. 

In order to get Enjolras to stop shaking his foot with nerves, Grantaire puts his hand on his thigh and says, “Me when I see you.” He points to Esmeralda, who is being held upside down and pulling quite a face if R has ever seen one. 

Enjolras leans his forehead against Grantaire’s shoulder and snorts, hiding his face with one hand as he does so. “Hush! You’re going to get me in so much trouble!” He says softly, shaking his head. “They’re pretty amazing.” He looks up at him, looking towards the skaters. 

“Sure.” He says, shrugging one shoulder, “They’re alright. They’re nowhere near you.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and says, “you know nothing about the sport.”

“Nope. I don’t need to. I know you’ve got this. No stress for me.” 

Next was Jehan and Montparnasse. They skated in synchronization to the center of the rink, arm in arm. The story of their dance was one of a free dove freeing a raven, and it was easy to tell who was who. Jehan led Montparnasse, spinning the tall gentleman in the most beautiful manner. Montparnasse still lifts the short sprite in intricate spins and lifts, but Jehan is the leader in most of the dance, and the tiny dancer looks so pretty out there, leading the raven. They end chest to chest, visibly winded and Jehan throws themself into Montparnasse’s arms, wheezing and laughing breathily. It’s precious to see.

R hopes they’re on podiums. Definitely not gold, but silver will do. 

Enjolras wipes his eyes and starts twitching again, and R puts a hand on his knee to settle him. 

“It was so pretty.” Enjolras mumbles. Was he really intimidated by little Jehan and their brute of a boyfriend? R wouldn’t allow that to stand. 

“I cry every time you dance, god honest truth.” R admits, and grabs Enjolras’ chin. “You. Got. This.” Enjolras’ eyes are wide, and R doesn’t know what’s gotten into either of them.  
Jehan passes and blows Enjolras a kiss and waves at Cosette. They look so proud and sweet; R is meant to hate them but he cannot. Montparnasse nods, jaw set and steady, following Jehan quietly. R thinks they’re a strange couple, but then again, his love for Enjolras is strange too. 

Cosette and Enjolras are third to go after the State’s team and the French team. R couldn’t be more anxious. He is stressed. Lying to Enjolras was okay, but the minute he stood and followed him to the ice Grantaire could no longer lie to himself. He was worried! He hated it. Trying to be reassuring to Enjolras now seemed impossible. Grantaire grabs his arm and nods firmly, squeezing his shoulder as he watches him leave onto the ice. His heart is pounding but his chest is tight, and he murmurs honestly to Joly, “damn, why am I nervous?”

Joly’s eyes are knowing, and he places a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You know why.” 

Grantaire doesn’t know what that means, but his face grows red regardless. 

With bated breath, they watch as Enjolras and Cosette are announced and their music begins. Enjolras opens his eyes and there is galaxies hidden in them, and R sees the minute the nervous energy is turned into stage presence. The horns start playing and Enjolras builds up energy, skating away from Cosette before grabbing her and beginning the dance, a grin on her face and power on his. They dance better than they ever have before. They dance so beautifully that Grantaire cannot believe it’s them. They’re truly out there, dancing their hearts out. The siblings are brilliant at their twizzles, and don’t miss a step. The jazz sequence makes Joly clap excitedly. R can feel the points racking up and he is so proud.

The energy from Enjolras is transferred to him. He cannot believe this is happening, and somehow it makes him so much more excited to be in love.

He is in love. He is not ashamed to say it. He is in love. Enjolras and his quiet texts at night. Enjolras and his laughter. Enjolras and his ice turning warm. Enjolras visiting Québec. Enjolras smiling at him. Enjolras and his skating. Enjolras and his attempts at hockey. Enjolras and his dreams, his ambition, his love. Enjolras.

Alexandre Enjolras was the only man he ever wanted to love again and he was not ashamed by it. He was proud. He wanted to kiss him and he wanted to pull him off the ice immediately to tell him. He wanted to know if Enjolras’ blushes meant the same. He wanted to know if Enjolras bringing him dinner meant the same. He wanted to know if wine tipsy Enjolras meant every word he said. He wanted to see Paris with Enjolras on his arm. He wanted to be Enjolras’ boyfriend, his one, his only. 

Could he be all that?

Before he can blink the dance is over and the stands are screaming. Enjolras is sweaty and a perfect Apollo, his hands raised wide to the crowd. They now bow and skate arm in arm towards the coach and friend to attend the kiss and cry. Somehow, Grantaire makes it there first. 

He stands at the door when they complete, bouncing with energy. 

Grantaire reaches out and grabs him, lifting him off the ice. Enjolras gasps out a little, “watch the skates!” warning, but R is far from caring. He is squeezing so tightly he isn’t sure Enjolras can breathe, and he knows they’re surrounded by cameras.

In a quiet voice reserved for them, he murmurs, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on.” It’s honest, devoted and loving. Enjolras grasps onto him tighter, but he feels a secret kiss to his jaw, and unexplainable energy pulses through him. 

Enjolras manages to escape his grasp to grab his guards and run to catch up to Cosette and Joly, and sit down amongst the flowers to hear his score  
He is dragging R with him, their pinkies twined. They sit thigh to thigh, Enjolras leaning against him as the scores are announced. 

“Alexandre Enjolras and Euphrasie Enjolras. With a total of 206.07 points, they are currently in first place.” 

Grantaire looks at Enjolras, eyes massive and wide and sputters, “Can I kiss—“ 

It’s too late, because Enjolras has his arms thrown around him and his lips pressed firmly to his mouth. He cannot believe his is the moment he has been waiting for. The crowd whoops and yells, arms in the air as they scream. Grantaire returns the kiss and grabs Enjolras’ shoulders, unable to stop himself from smiling. All the frustration they had shared had finally flooded out and on international television. He knows he will wake up to millions of texts, messages, and news stories the next morning. But he doesn’t care. Neither does Enjolras. Alexandre is filled with a love he has never felt before, and it is finally flooding out. The world deserves to see it. Months and months of fighting and missed signals and missed connections just for this. He loves this man and, god, it hurt to not show him. The kiss is short but it leaves R breathless as Cosette screams and throws herself in R’s arms. He hugs her tightly and shouts, standing now without even recalling standing. 

The closing ceremonies end with the Enjolras’ gold medals around their necks, Montparnasse and Prouvaire with silver, and some young skaters from Japan with bronze. R doesn’t really care about anything but Enjolras up there, glittering and beaming, a beacon of hope for the skating world, and for Vincent’s heart. 

 

2022, Beijing, China. It’s cold when they land, and R is shivering as he steps off the plane. There is paparazzi and fans everywhere, and the Canadian team is followed by hoards of coaches and fans alike off the plane. He waves animatedly, it’s been a few months since his injury, but he’s happy to show that he is back on the ice and back on the Olympic team this year. It’s excitement that makes him so happy, excitement from the fans and excitement for what is to come. He gets in a cab and is on the way to the hotel room when he gets a text from Cosette that they’re waiting in the lobby for him. 

It’s been a few weeks since he saw Enjolras in person, and suddenly the excitement makes him bubble with joy. It sucks to be apart from the man that he now loves and lives with. They’ve been going strong the past four odd years now, and go to every one of each other's competitions. They moved in together last year, and R is considering buying a ring, but only Cosette knows that. Enjolras and Cosette train full time in Canada, and live in city. Cosette’s boyfriend is an IT guy named Marius. They’re cute, and she lets him sleep over at her apartment a lot. Enjolras doesn’t completely agree with him, but they have differing views. Cosette is a good middleman, and R is happy to distract with drinks and with jokes. 

They’ve all grown, R thinks for the better. They’re new people, they’re people he likes and would love to hang out with. He isn’t so shocked by the feelings anymore, and media has gotten used to his secure relationship that they don’t ask him much about being gay anymore. It’s just apart of him that doesn’t interfere with hockey. None of his teammates mind, they’ve known for awhile anyways. They ask to meet Enjolras and they’re thoroughly impressed. They’re more impressed that Vincent managed to get such an attractive and successful boyfriend than who Enjolras was, really. They knew Enjolras was wonderful, who didn’t?

R remembers meeting Enjolras’ friends too, the French figure skater Courfeyrac and his boyfriend who just happens to be the internet sensation Combeferre, who was widely known as the sexy curler. They’re both really nice, and Courfeyrac texts R often. He likes them, he likes his life, for once. If someone told him years ago this was where he would be he would be impressed with himself. He isn’t sure he would believe it either. 

He is just thinking this as he steps off into the lobby, and Enjolras runs towards him. They embrace like it’s been years, Enjolras’ thin fingers in his hair and his breath on his neck. Enjolras is soft and smells of berries. He is still insanely tall, he is still beautiful, and somehow he is still Grantaire’s boyfriend. 

“You haven’t shaved since I left, have you?” Enjolras laughs against his hair. He hates when R doesn’t shave. He loves Vincent’s scruff, but full beard is just too much for him. 

“Not once,” R admits, leaning up to peck Enjolras on the cheek. Enjolras laughs and squirms away. Why shave when you have no one to kiss?

“Shave.” He requests, and leaves to the elevators. They get on and they’re holding pinkies, and life is really, really good. 

He thinks of the boy at the airport, eyes full of hope and admiration, and hopes desperately that he finds something like this when he’s older. That he finds a boy, beautiful, smiling and warm, who will fall in love with him like Enjolras loves him, who will hold his pinky and never let go, who dedicates whole smiles to seeing him. No one deserves to be alone, and R is just cleaning that he is included in that too. 

The memes come in, except this time it’s Enjolras gazing lovingly and R not noticing, it’s Grantaire grinning wildly and Enjolras smiling in return. It’s them hugging during ceremonies, it’s them dancing at the closing ceremonies. It’s Enjolras yelling when Canada wins. It’s R shouting when he gets a silver medal in ice dance. It’s selfies and kisses shared on the ice. It’s happiness in the package he wishes he had four years ago. It’s happiness that R idealized. 

The happiness continues, Enjolras sneaking in his bed and taking naps, Enjolras kissing him after each match, Enjolras returning home with him after the games, and Enjolras putting their medals on the mantel. He has it all. 

Ultimate happiness is the next season, when Grantaire proposes on the sidelines after Alexandre and Cosette’s free skate, and Enjolras says yes. 

Vincent Grantaire has a pretty good life, and it’s all because some boy got mad because he went overtime on his ice. And he wouldn’t trade that for the world.


End file.
